


When Self Care Isn't Self Care

by organizedrebel



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Depression, F/M, How Do I Tag, I'll add more tags as I think of them, no harm, no triggers, reader - Freeform, self-care
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-24
Updated: 2019-01-24
Packaged: 2019-10-15 09:00:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17525729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/organizedrebel/pseuds/organizedrebel
Summary: You're depressed. There's a million levels between "fine" and "suicidal," and many writers don't seem to realize that. No triggers, no harm. You just need a little bit of encouragement to get out of bed some mornings.





	When Self Care Isn't Self Care

_Self care,_ they said. _Self care will make you feel better. Getting a cookie. Bath bombs. Sleeping in a little. Make yourself feel better._

That wasn’t self care.

Self care was doing what was best for you, whether or not you liked it. Future you would thank past you for doing the dishes that had been sitting in the sink for four days, for instance. Doing it now saved you from having to do it later.

The problem was, there was always something more to do, no matter how much you did.

 _It’s hereditary,_ they told you. _Some people develop to just produce less serotonin than others. Happens all the time._ That didn’t make you feel better. Throwing medication at something in your head didn’t make it go away. You were _on_ medication, and it helped. But it didn’t fix everything. And what it didn’t fix was up to you.

And you felt useless, because you couldn’t even do that.

You would go to try, then falter, because _what if you failed?_ What if you ended up in a worse frame of mind than you were before? Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t, you reasoned, and you managed your depression as best you could with what you had.

You didn’t feel like getting up to shower today. _You’ll feel better,_ you told yourself firmly. _Getting up is the hardest part. Once you do that, it’s all easier._ You knew this from experience. But you couldn’t seem to dredge up the energy.

Candles littered your apartment. Not all of them had a smell-- not all of them had to. Candles were relaxing to you for a reason you couldn’t name. Lighting one when your stress was getting the better of you counted as self care. Managing your anxiety with what was available to you. It was small, but it worked.

And yet, you couldn’t find a way to do the same for your depression.

You didn’t want to die, that wasn’t it. You felt feelings just as well as the next person, and you’d never reached for the razors in the bathroom cabinet. Your therapists had never considered you a suicide risk, and you tried not to disappoint them. But how disappointed would they be now, if they saw you curled under your blankets, telling yourself in all manner of ways to get up and go bathe, and yet found yourself unable to?

What would your friends say if they knew?

You could hear the quiet rap on your door from where you were laying in your bedroom, and recognizing it, chose to do nothing. He had a key. He would let himself in. He knew you were home, anyway.

This would hardly be the worst he’d seen from you, after all.

True to form, a few moments later you heard the key in the lock and the too-quiet creak your apartment door made. You heard the door close, but after that, you heard nothing. You didn’t expect to. He’d been trained to walk silently.

Turned away from your doorway as you were, your next clue to his presence was a weight sinking down on the other side of your bed. Gentle fingers combed through the hair on your temple, brushing it back from your face. It was probably greasy and tangled. You should get up and fix that by showering.

“Bad day?”

His voice was low and a little rough, like gravel being rolled across velvet. Short on the vowel sounds, and more concise than anyone you’d ever spoken with. You loved his voice. He’d taken to speaking more around you because of it.

You nodded a little absently, running your fingers over the seam of your blanket. You weren’t ashamed of this, not with him. He knew. He knew so much worse, so this, he knew.

He hummed in response, continuing to comb calloused fingers through your hair. If it was oily or bothered him, he didn’t mention it. You didn’t have the nerve to ask. You knew your hair needed washed.

Sometimes comfort didn’t have to be talking. Sitting in silence was enough. You’d figured that out years ago-- and he had discovered that you knew this fact. It was part of what drew him to you in the first place. You had your issues. So did he. You didn’t judge him for them. He returned the favor.

You weren’t dramatic enough to think that the two of you were kindred souls, who had both experienced enough hardships to understand what the other was going through perfectly. That wasn’t how life worked. While many considered his hurdles had been decidedly more complicated than their own, you wouldn’t compare his to anyone’s. Not even yours.

Drowning in six inches of water still had the same result as drowning in twenty feet of water.

And you were both strong enough to keep your heads above the tide.

Except, it seemed, on days like today.

Getting up was still going to be the most difficult thing you did today. You would find a way to manage it, if only because you didn’t want to disappoint him. After you were on your feet, everything else was easier. You can get up. You can do this.

You closed your eyes for a moment more-- only a moment, you didn’t want to take any longer than that-- and slid your hands underneath your shoulders, pushing yourself up into a half-seated position and letting your legs slide out from underneath the covers to dangle over the edge of your bed. His hand slid off your shoulder when you did move, and you didn’t need to look at him to feel his satisfaction. You didn’t need to, but you did anyway, feeling just selfish enough to want that tiny extra bit of validation. A tiny smile was playing at the edges of his lips, and he lifted a hand to cup your cheek.

You favored him with a more uncertain smile, turning away from him to slide out of bed. Your feet hit the floor with a muted _thump_ , and you wobbled for a second while you found your balance.  _Hard part's over._  

“I think--” You broke off, wetting your lips and swallowing. Long periods without speaking would do that to you. “-- I think… maybe I want a shower.”

“Maybe?” he echoed, one eyebrow twitching upwards.

You threw him a practiced dry look out of habit, reaching up to brush your hair out of your face. “I _do_ want a shower,” you rephrased, and he nodded in approval.

“I’ll get the water started for you.” It took a minute to heat up this time of year, and you both knew that.

You offered him a smile that touched your eyes this time, before moving to find a change of clothes. “... Thank you.”

“Anytime, doll.”

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm just gonna come out and say that I have depression and experience depressive episodes. And over the years I've noticed that many writers of "depressed!reader" fics don't seem to understand there's an extremely blurred line between "fine" and "suicidal." This isn't to bash them. Mental illness, depression in particular, is romanticized and built upon in the media, creating an incredibly toxic environment for those of us who DO have depression. It does not always manifest as self harm and suicidal thoughts, and that's what most people don't understand. They should, but they don't. 
> 
> As one of my favorite writing teachers in history told me, "Write what you know." And I don't think they do know. Which is why more people need to learn. There is more to depression than cutting and wishing you could throw yourself off a bridge.


End file.
